Morty Looks Up To Rick
by WriKai
Summary: Morty looks up to Rick, tries his best to remember all the science stuff he taught him and be like his grandfather, all brave and uncaring and smart and stuff. How will Rick feel when he sees the consequences of his choices reflected in his grandson?


The first time Rick Sanchez witnessed his grandson drink, it was after he'd picked the adventure.

No, not Rick you stupid fuck. It was after Morty picked his damn adventure, with the stupid quest and the giants and the giant lawyer and one freaked as hell out Morty by the end of it. And Rick knew why. He was a genius, after all. That Mr. Jellybean king guy _whatever_ had probably tried to go at it with Morty.

And of course, Morty pussied out on facing him and kicking his ass in the aftermath, so they'd left.

That hadn't stopped Rick from going back and kicking his ass, though. Nobody fucks with his grandson. That was his job, not some fucking perverted jellybean king or anyone else.

And when Rick had come back, he walked in to the kitchen to get a damn snack (AKA a refill for his empty flask) before going back to sleep. He walked in to the dark kitchen and stopped, seeing Morty sitting at the table, a bottle of Rick's favorite scotch in his hand.

Rick didn't say a word. Morty didn't see him, didn't seem to see him at all. The poor kid looked… He looked fucking fucked up, depressed as shit. Rick watched as he took a swig, made a sour face, and put the drink away. He watched as Morty didn't see him, not once, and both males made their way back to their rooms quietly. Morty never came to Rick. Rick never confronted Morty.

Rick waited till morning before he refilled his flask again.

The next time he saw Morty drink was after Unity, fucking UNITY. Rick was done with half-assed attempts at killing himself, at least for now, and decided to get another fucking drink. His daughter and her dumber-than-rocks husband were out doing… Man, it wasn't Rick's job to remember that shit! They were just out, out doing whatever it was that his daughter did with that dumbass husband. Summer was doing something or other with friends, and Morty was alone. Morty was at that same table, once again, with that same bottle of old scotch, and Rick was there just like last time to watch from the shadows.

He watched Morty take one drink, two, three, and set it down with a small sigh. No fucked up "this shit is nasty" faces, just a depressed sigh before putting the bottle back once more, his feet a little unsteady.

Rick didn't need to refill his flask, it was full, but he wasn't tempted to take a drink from it either. Something about seeing his grandson do the same thing…. It wasn't right. Not at all.

So Rick went back to his workshop, tempted for another half-assed suicide, and decided against it once more. If he went through with it, what if the kid thought that was ok too?

The last straw was after switching fucking universes; after burying themselves (and Rick had to say, even though the other him was a handsome son of a bitch, it was obvious which Rick looked better) in the backyard, six feet under.

 _If only he'd given me that fucking screwdriver._ Rick thought. _I wouldn't have blown us up, though. I had that shit figured out already and had fixed that problem._ But late that night, he saw his grandson in the kitchen once more, bottle of whiskey in his hand this time. _This Rick must've preferred whiskey. I'll have to restock on scotch later._

This time was different, though, because there was a glass in Morty's other hand. With one shaky hand, he poured himself a glass of whisky until it was full. He put down the bottle, and Rick saw it was already half-empty. It could've already been close to being that way from the other Rick, but the scientist wasn't certain on that.

He watched his grandson drink one, then two, then the whole bottle in glasses full of whiskey. This wasn't Morty. This wasn't what Morty did. Morty was the innocent little fucker, the pussy that probably wouldn't even try a pinch of weed. Morty wasn't the kid that fucked around with alcoholism.

But there he was, a bottle of whiskey already down, and Morty was going back to the liquor cabinet to get another. He was as shaky on his feet as his hand had been with pouring, almost dropping the second bottle of whiskey when he grabbed it.

"Morty, stop." Rick was surprised to find himself speaking, and sure enough, the dumb kid dropped the whole damn bottle in his own surprise and fear.

"I, I, I'm sorry, R-Rick." He said, his words slurred as he tried to clean up the broken glass with his bare hands, or move some of the liquor on to a glass shard to drink.

"Morty, stop, stop, now." Rick told him, surprised at the softness in his voice as he walked towards his own grandson. "Stop the drinking thing, alright? That's my – _nuuuurrrrrrp_ – my thing."

"Why, why should I?" Morty asked, standing up. He staggered as he stood, and put an arm out on the fridge to stop himself from falling down on the glass. "You, you, you drink a – _hic_ – all the time. Why shouldn't I?"

"It, it's not good for you, man." Rick tried to explain. "It's bad for you, real bad, bad for your brain. I'm glad you're finally trying to step up and not be a fucking pu – pussy and all, but not like this." Rick shook his head, feeling more guilty than he thought was possible. "Not like this."

"Why, why not?" There it was, the kid fell, flat on his ass, narrowly missing the glass around him. He turned to the side, put his hand down (there it was, glass shards slicing his hand now), and puked right on the fucking floor. "Oh, oh, oh geez." He muttered. "I g – guess I'll have to cl – _hic_ – clean this up."

Rick walked over to him, walked over to his grandson without saying a word, and picked him up effortlessly. "What, what are you – _hic_ – doing, Rick?" Morty asked. Rick didn't answer, just carried the kid up to his room. Morty was asleep before Rick even made it halfway up the stairs.

He pulled the glass shards out of Morty's hand, and injected him a few moments later with something that would take away the hangover and fix up his hand. In all honesty, Rick had no idea what the concoction was made of. He'd made it, sure, but he had no idea how.

The wonders of being drunk when sciencing.

 _Well_ , Rick looked over at Morty's sleeping form. They _don't exactly feel like wonders anymore._

Rick walked back down the stairs to the kitchen quietly, and cleaned up the mess. No half-assed remarks, no cursing out whoever he wanted to curse out, nothing. Just quiet cleaning up Morty's drunken mess.

When he finished, Rick walked back up to Morty's room to make sure that he was still there, still asleep. Through his window, he could see where they'd buried their alternate selves.

 _Poor kid has gone through a lot,_ Rick thought. _More than he should have._

For a moment, Rick considered just leaving again; just grabbing all of his stuff and going, hiding out and drowning his sorrows in whatever alien drinks he found first like he'd done before. It was safer with him gone, after all. Better on the family.

He'd left so he didn't have to see his daughter be like this; left so he didn't have to keep seeing the look of despair on her mom's face.

Rick considered leaving again, to make them all freer, but dismissed it just as quickly. He couldn't do that to his daughter, not again. He couldn't do that to his grandkids; they actually LIKED being around him.

So instead of abandoning them all again to wonder where he'd gone, and hate him forever, Rick walked back down to the garage, and took a glance at one of the many guns he'd had laying around.

He picked one up, and held it towards himself, right towards his stupid fucking brain.

And for a moment, he considered doing more than just abandoning them, because when you just leave without a trace, people look. People become dependent when they see you after ten or fifteen or twenty years, and will cry and break apart marriages and split grandkids and cause misery when someone just goes missing.

But if he was dead…. Nobody would look. There would be a nice funeral, probably, and then there would be two dead Ricks in this universe and only one dead Morty.

Rick looked down the gun, stared down the damn fucking dark barrel, and considered it a moment longer before putting the gun away.

If the kid thought drinking was ok because of him, what would happen if Rick actually went through with it?


End file.
